The Girl in the Photograph
by PearlQ19
Summary: Episode tag/one-shot set after 2x14. Felicity is feeling somewhat threatened and left out, and Oliver finally takes action. Canon, no A/U, but clear Olicity intent. Fluffy and mostly harmless, with the K rating just in case. More info inside. Reviews are greatly appreciated.


**The Girl in the Photograph**

 _Author's Note:_ _OK, I caved and started watching "Arrow." It's miles better than I'd heard, and I am absolutely endeared to the character of Felicity. Finally, somebody realized that being a geek doesn't necessarily mean the person has no social skills. I also like the fact that her glasses are almost a fashion statement and not an attempt to make her the "ugly duckling." And the chemistry between Oliver and Felicity is insane…! So of course a plot bunny came hopping along in season 2. I know that "Olicity" is really going to happen, but I haven't gotten that far yet, and for now I just need to write this. It should still fit with canon.  
… And at the time of posting this, I am up-to-date on the show, Olicity has come and gone and might or might not come back, and I'm still putting this online._

 _Classification:_ _Fluffy piece set in the second half of season 2 while Oliver is dating Sara (I can barely watch them, they are SO NOT GOOD together!) and Felicity has her inferiority crisis._

 _Disclaimer:_ _Not mine. Belongs to DC and the creators of the show, hoping they don't mind I borrowed their characters. Not making money. Under no illusion that this disclaimer would actually help me legally if the creators did mind._

There is a light on in her window, and I tell myself that it can't hurt to check on her. Felicity has been a bit subdued lately. I'm feeling slightly guilty because John had to point it out to me; I could have noticed myself. Looking back, I don't see how I could miss it: her awkward attempt at joining our conversation about battle scars, her reaction when Sara completed the blood work herself. It just never occurred to me that she would feel threatened. There is no way I could do what I do without her.

I edge closer to her living room window, taking care to stay in the shadows. Peering into the room, I can see that the TV is on, but Felicity is not watching: I can see her lying on the couch, evidently fast asleep.

I debate for a moment whether I should just turn around and leave, now that I know that she's home safe, but she looks so lost and vulnerable there with her legs drawn up to her chest and her glasses askew. Also, I tell myself that she's going to thank me if I make sure she doesn't wake up in the morning with a sore back and her hair in a state of disrepair.

The Arrow has no business seeking out a humble IT girl, or so the neighbors should be led to believe, so I'm trying to make sure nobody sees me as I rush around to the back door, unlock the door using the key Felicity usually keeps in the lair, and slip inside the house. The door closes silently on well-oiled hinges.

For a moment, I linger in the hallway, listening. But my stealthy entrance did not disturb her slumber, it seems, and so I move along into the living room.

I have been here before; a couple of times, actually. The room is friendly and practical, with no superfluous kitsch, but not clinically sterile, either. There are personal accents everywhere, little personal items that make the room hers, and hers alone: Felicity's MIT diploma in a frame on the wall, a battered issue of a computer magazine on the dining table, a scented candle on the windowsill, and so on.

Felicity is lying on the couch rolled into a ball with her glasses askew and her arm hanging down. A quilt is pulled over her drawn-up legs and hips. The floor is littered with a few used Kleenexes, and for a moment I'm confused. She didn't look sick with the flu earlier, so why the need to blow her nose several times?

I look at the couch table: a mug of tea that's gone cold, a notebook and pen, a framed picture … I look closer. I am fairly sure I have not seen this picture before, but when I think back now, I remember that her couch table looked like an item was missing from it, judging by the way the other items were arranged. Now this gap is not there and the photo sits quite naturally in its frame. The implication being, of course, that Felicity removed the photo on purpose the last time I was here. Maybe she felt embarrassed.

The photo was obviously taken at some sort of function. I am at the center of the shot, wearing my tux and a crisp white shirt with a sea-green tie. My head is turned to the side to Felicity, who is beside me. She is wearing a long pale pink dress that accentuates her gentle curves, and her hair is done up with a diamanté hairband woven into it. However, she has opted to keep her glasses instead of switching to contacts as she sometimes does. Her arm is loosely linked through mine, her hand resting on top of my wrist, and her head is turned to me.

Something about our outfits rings a bell, but I can't remember what exactly it was. What I do remember is that Felicity and I sometimes share a private joke when we enter such an event together, making fun of how dolled up everyone (including ourselves) is, promising each other to make the best of it, no matter how boring the event will turn out to be. Usually it ends in a job for the Arrow, anyway.

The photographer must have caught us in one of those shared moments. I can see why Felicity had the picture framed: we are looking at each other as if we were the only people who mattered, completely at ease with each other, fully aware that we are both going to draw some looks and secretly amused by that. Respect, friendship, camaraderie. Partners.

The picture frame is turned so that it faces the couch, and it dawns on me that Felicity must have been looking at it before she fell asleep. And then it hits me: perhaps she is not sick with the flu at all. Perhaps the little balls of Kleenex mean that she's been crying.

I move in to stand directly next to the couch, looking down in my IT girl, and a wave of affection rolls over me. For the first time I understand what it must have been like for her when Sara joined the team and could do half the things that we always relied on Felicity to do. She must have feared to be replaced. It probably didn't help that Sara and I …

I shake my head to clear it of those thoughts. It's my job to take care of my team and to be there for them when they need me. And right now it looks as if Felicity needs me. She needs reassurance. Telling her she'd always be my girl was certainly a good start, I reflect, but maybe it wasn't enough.

I stretch out my hand and lay it tentatively on her shoulder. "Felicity?" Applying very soft pressure, I gently shake her shoulder, so gently it is almost a caress.

She stirs, mumbling something. Her hand reflexively goes to her glasses, steadying them, and then her eyes snap open as she realized that someone is there. I can see the beginning of a panic in her still sleep-clouded eyes and quickly take her by the shoulders. "It's OK, it's me," I say hastily, soothing her out of her tense, alert state.

Felicity sighs and shakes her head once, fast, like a dog who is shaking off water.

"What are you doing here?" she asks then, not unreasonably, but her voice is tired. I'm a little surprised. I would have expected more flustering from her. She is definitely not her usual bubbly self.

I sneak a glance at her face. She's a little puffy around the eyes and there is a smudge of mascara on her cheek, and I realize with a painful pang in my chest that my assumption was probably correct: she has indeed been crying.

In answer to her question, I shrug. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by. I saw the light on in your window and let myself in." I raise my hand holding her spare key. "I'll put it back where it belongs later," I promise her with a half-smile.

Felicity takes off her glasses and rubs the heel of her hand over her eyes. Then she looks to the side and freezes. She has spotted the picture, and she knows I've seen it.

"That's a really great picture," I say, pointing my head at it. "Who took it?"

"No idea," says Felicity, giving the frame a casual push as if to show its just a picture. "Someone at the paper, I think. Walter gave it to me. He said it was in a bunch of pictures he was supposed to approve, and he thought I would like it."

"I like it, too," I say, taking the frame into my hand and pretending I'm looking at it for the first time. "You look very beautiful."

"Thanks," mumbles Felicity. "That's not why I like it, though."

"So why do you?" I ask her.

Felicity raises her eyes to meet mine. "Because it reminds me of how things used to be," she says. "This is a picture of two people who are absolutely equal. The girl in the photograph is confident and at the peak of her powers. She is someone who know the work she does is indispensable. And you look at her as if you're very well aware of that."

"Felicity!" The resignation in her voice breaks my heart. I toss my bow and quiver aside, sit down next to her on the couch, and stretch out my arms. I am overwhelmed by the need to make her feel better.

She comes to me like a sleepwalker, scooting along the couch until I can reach her, wrap my arms around her and pull her close. I feel her settling against my chest with a sigh.

"Why on earth would you think any of that has changed?" I ask her. "The girl in the photograph is still there, still the same. And the guy is still very much aware of the fact that he would be lost without her."

A hiccupping sigh from Felicity is the answer, then she says in a small voice: "Is that so?"

Instead of answering, I wrap my arms even tighter around her and bury my face in her hair. "That has always been so," I say quietly, "and nothing and no one is going to change that. Do you understand?"

She nods against my chest.

We sit like that for a while in comfortable silence. Then Felicity takes a determined breath, extricates herself from my arms, and cleans off the clutter from the table, cold tea and all. The picture stays where it is. I wait on the couch while she pops into the bathroom, removes the remains of her make-up, brushes her teeth. When she eventually emerges, she looks almost like her old self again.

"Thanks for the pep talk," she says. "I think the girl in the photograph is now ready to turn back into a pumpkin."

I laugh at her mix of metaphors, but I get the hint. I get up from the couch, sling my bow and quiver over my shoulders, and turn to her. "You OK?" I ask.

Felicity nods, and her smile is her own again, not the pained ghost of it I've seen earlier. "Thanks for stopping by, Oliver," she says quietly. "Really. I'm sorry I was so whiny."

I smile at her. "Just remember you're still the girl in the photograph," I tell her. "My girl." My hand reaches out and I brush my fingers across hers before I take her hand and squeeze it gently. "Good night, Felicity."

"Good night, Oliver."

I lift her hand to my face and press a small kiss to her fingertips. She holds my gaze and smiles. And then she turns around, walks into her bedroom, and softly closes the door.

I slip out the same way I came in, testing whether the back door is shut properly, and then I run back into the night.

But with a much lighter heart than when I came here.

 **THE END**


End file.
